


Web of Lies

by thatmasquedgirl



Series: Reluctant Allies [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: (Blacklist on that one), (also Blacklist), (of both shows damn this is complicated), Action, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Blacklist Fusion, BAMF Felicity Smoak, Brief appearance by John Diggle, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Hey does anyone actually remember this 'verse?, I AM DOING THAT PLOT, I REGRET NOTHING, I've been marathoning Blacklist, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Oh yes, Oliver Queen is a Shameless Flirt, One Shot, POV Felicity Smoak, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, So now I have a Big Mood, The Cabal (The Blacklist), because it's been like 3 years, season 2 finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 03:38:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12203145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatmasquedgirl/pseuds/thatmasquedgirl
Summary: When everything turns on Felicity, an unlikely ally shows up to help her.  Or maybe he's the best ally she's ever had.More of "Book of Secrets," now with a government conspiracy, fugitives from the law, and maybe a little murder.Written for TheBookJumper's Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon.  Prompt:  escape.





	Web of Lies

**Author's Note:**

> I finally made it back to The Blacklist and I finished rewatching the first half of Season 3. Things happened. By "things," I mean all the plot bunnies.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy it, and as always, would love to know what you think! Thank you!
> 
> Beautiful artwork courtesy of LaDemonessa.

 

* * *

 

Felicity stares down at the blood on her hands, trying to make sense of it.  Sebastian Blood’s body lies on the floor in front of her, but even still she can’t believe he’s actually dead.  After a _year_ of him manipulating their lives from behind the scenes, it’s hard to reconcile the arrogant asshole with a lump of flesh and bone in front of her.

Hands shaking, she lets the knife drop to the floor.

“Oh, honey, how I wish you hadn’t done that,” a voice says from behind her.  Felicity doesn’t have to turn to know who it is; only one person has ever called her _honey_.  After he saved her from the Stewmaker, Oliver started calling her that, and despite how many times she’s asked him to stop in three years, he just ignores her.  Some things never change.

Suddenly it hits her:  she _killed_ a man.  A very bad man, but also the Attorney General of the United States.  It won’t matter to anyone that he was an evil man.  It won’t matter that he destroyed Lance’s life, that he framed her for the murder of a senator, or that he’s been destroying the world from inside the government for years.  All that matters is he’s dead and she killed him.

This is out of Felicity’s wheelhouse.  She’s never killed a man before, much less a powerful one.  With that realization, she turns with wide eyes to Oliver.  His expression is stoic, but she knows by the look in his eyes that it’s much worse than she realizes.  “What do I need to do, Oliver?” she whispers to him, a heavy fatigue suddenly weighing on her bones.

His answer comes with only a short sigh.  It’s one of the things she’s always appreciated about Oliver; he doesn’t lie—not about the important things and _never_ to her.  “You killed a leader of the _Cabal_ , Felicity,” he replies slowly.  The way he says her name has weight; he hardly ever calls her by name anymore.  She flinches at the words, but there’s no judgment in his tone.  “While I appreciate your choice, your life just became far more complicated.  Unfortunately, my dear, it limits your options.”

“So I’m running again,” she realizes with a weary sigh.  She had hoped it was over, that she could go home after this, but now she’s realizing just now naïve that thought was.

Nodding, Oliver replies, “I’m afraid so, honey.”  Every part of her deflates; this road has been hard for the last week, and it shows no time of ending soon.  “If you turn yourself in, you’d be a sitting duck for the Cabal.”  He shoves his hands in his pockets.  “As much as I hate it for you, I think running is our only option.”

The word _our_ makes Felicity release a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.  A part of her wondered—a part of her _always_ wonders.  Three years, and still she doesn’t know him as well as she’d like.  Or as well as he seems to know her.  “You’re going with me,” she breathes out, more in relief than question.

Flashing her that trademark Oliver Queen charm grin, he replies with a tilt of his head, “Now what kind of man would I be if I left my one and only friend out in the cold?”  Felicity resists the urge to break down in tears of relief, but this isn’t the time for that.  Now is the time to escape.

Instead of flinching from her bloodied hands, Oliver only twists her fingers between his.  “You made an important decision today, Felicity,” he warns her in a low voice.  “When you did, you crossed a threshold I never wanted you to cross.”  He sighs, shaking his head before looking at her again.  “As of today, you’re leaving your world behind, in favor of mine.  Bad things are going to happen to you now, honey.  If there’s one constant in my world, it’s that bad things happen to good people all the time.”

His lips press against her forehead.  “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” Oliver says after a moment, with that familiar upbeat tone she’s come to learn is false.  He gently tugs her along beside him, hand never leaving hers.  “If we’re going to leave this city, it’s going to be more difficult with you covered in blood.”

With his free hand, he pulls out a cell phone, placing it to his ear.  Felicity stares at the antiquated flip phone that was probably outdated fifteen years ago, brow furrowing.  “I thought you didn’t have a cell phone,” leaves her mouth without permission.

Oliver only winks at her.  “One of the many sacrifices I’ve made because of you, Felicity Smoak,” he replies, as though this is a normal day at the office and he isn’t about to go on the lam again.  Before she can ask if he _has_ sacrificed for her, he says into the phone, “Diggle, I’m going to need my bug-out bag.  And Felicity’s.”

She whirls at the information; she’s has never had a bug-out bag in her life.  Felicity doesn’t even know what the hell goes _in_ a bug-out bag.  Oliver merely lifts a shoulder at her expression.  Twisting the phone away from his mouth, he explains, I’m prepared for a number of contingencies, honey.”  Suddenly he’s talking to Diggle again.  “We’ll be at Red Circle.”  After a brief pause, he replies, “Thank you, but I’ll handle the arrangements myself.  See you in five.”

In the next second, he’s throwing the cell phone over his shoulder and shrugging out of his suit coat.  “Put this on,” he suggests.  “It will cover the blood on your clothes for now.”  His hand is back in hers a moment later, even as he uses his other hand to remove his tie, letting it fall to the ground.  “Do you have a cell phone?” he asks her quietly.

Felicity fishes it out of her back pocket, handing it to him.  She expects him to throw it out, but instead he pockets it.  As they step out of the building, he releases her hand and places it in the crook of his arm instead.  His features are perfectly calm, as though they’re a couple out for a walk.  As they pass an outdoor café on the corner, she almost misses it when he palms another cell phone off a table.

He dials a number on the smartphone as if he _didn’t_ carry a flip phone.  When someone answers, he greets them with, “It’s me.  I need to travel.  Quickly, if possible.”  There’s a pause.  “I’ll leave the details to you, but I’ll be in the city park in thirty minutes.  East side, near the gate.  Nyssa will ensure you receive double the standard rate for your haste.”

“Why are you keeping my cell phone?” she asks as he turns a corner.

Oliver grins.  “Have I ever told you what a horrible bridge player I am?” replies instead.  Three years of experience tells her that if he launches into a story, she isn’t going to get an answer.  “My father was _excellent_.  With anyone else as a partner, he would have won the North American pairs.  We didn’t even make it through the Starling City tournament.  I’m not good at playing with partners.”  He pats her hand, but his fingers linger over hers.  “Don’t fret, honey,” he insists with a wink.  “I’m holding all the trump cards.  I’ll be the declarer, you be the dummy, and we’ll win this hand.  I promise.”

Felicity sighs.  Sometimes Oliver makes things feel easier, but sometimes he only makes them infinitely harder.  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I trust you,” she replies finally.

Over the last three years, Felicity has seen a lot of smiles on his face—most of them false, a few that are sincere—but she’s never seen one as wide or as genuine as the one he gives her in response.  “See, if _you_ had been my bridge partner, we would have won,” is all he replies.

A second later, he’s dialing on the stolen cell phone again.  This time, when it picks up, he looks less than relieved.  “Hey, Speedy,” he greets.  There’s a frantic rush of speech, but Felicity can’t distinguish any words in the garble.  “I know what they’re saying about her.  I promise none of it is true, but I can’t explain that right now.  All I can tell you is that I have to disappear for a while.”

Guilt gnaws at Felicity’s stomach.  Leaning in, she calls, “It’s my fault, Thea.  I made a mistake.  I’m sorry.”

After throwing her a look, Oliver continues, “Felicity isn’t a Russian spy, but she _is_ in danger and she needs my help if we’re going to clear her name.  If you need _anything_ , contact Diggle or Sara.  They’ll relay any messages on to me when they can, okay?”  This time the pause is short.  “I love you, Speedy.  Take care of yourself.”  With that, he terminates the call and throws the phone into the nearest trash can.

Sirens blare in the distance.  Felicity jumps, but Oliver just keeps moving, guiding her into an alleyway.  Before she can ask what he’s doing, he releases his hold on her, motioning her up the fire escape.  “Open the window on the sixth floor,” is all he says.

She almost collapses into the room, breathing heavily.  He only sides through, as though they hadn’t walked two miles and climbed five flights of stairs.  “Wow, I really need to do more cardio,” Felicity mutters to herself, which earns a surprised laugh from Oliver.

Both of them turn at the sound of footsteps in the abandoned room.  She can’t bring herself to pull the gun from her shoulder holster, but Oliver doesn’t suffer from the same problem.  “Verdant,” a voice calls, and Felicity breathes a sigh of relief when she recognizes it as Diggle’s.

By the time he appears in the doorway, Oliver is already there, taking the two bags from him.  “Thank you, Digg,” he says, taking a set of keys from him.  “For everything.”  After a short glance, he assures his bodyguard, “I’ll contact you the usual way when it’s safe for you to join us.  Until then, stay safe.”

Diggle offers a slight wave to Felicity, which she returns.  “Good luck, Felicity,” he calls.  Turning back to Oliver, he adds, “If you need _anything_ , Oliver, remember you have friends here.”  The two men hug.  “I’ll have the care package ready when you need it.”  Just like that, he’s gone.

Oliver tosses one of the bags at Felicity’s feet.  “Unfortunately this place doesn’t have running water,” he informs her, crouching down next to her.  He unzips the bag at her feet, confused to find a pink t-shirt on top.  Apparently she accused her dryer falsely; it didn’t take her favorite top.  From the bag, he takes a bottle of water and a washcloth.  “But I prepare for contingencies like that.”

She shrugs out of his suit coat as he wets the cloth for her.  Though she means to take it from him, he starts dabbing at her hands himself.  When Felicity throws him a look, he only meets her eyes with that special kind of intensity that makes her think she’s an open book to him.  Glancing away, her eyes land on the suit coat and the stains around the hem of the sleeve from her bloodied hands.  “I ruined your suit,” she mutters.  “That’s a shame—it was one of my favorites.”

By the time her words catch up to her, Oliver is already laughing.  “Have you been studying my wardrobe, honey?” he teases, leaning in.  She can feel her face turn hot.  “If it’s any consolation,” he adds, scrubbing on her knuckles, “I’m already mourning the loss of the red dress you wore last week.  The one with the cutout.  It’s a shame we couldn’t bring it, but it would probably attract attention from the wrong people.”  One corner of his mouth lifts up as he meets her eyes.  “Myself included.”

Sighing, Felicity asks, “How many times do I have to tell you not to make a pass at me?”

“The phrase ‘making a pass’ implies intent,” is Oliver’s answer, dismissed with a shrug of his shoulders.  “I don’t have any intentions.”  He starts unbuttoning his shirt, and Felicity’s mouth goes dry before she mentally shakes herself.  Now is _not_ the time to think of why he’d be undressing if he _did_ have intentions.  “So I suppose it’s more like harmless flirting.  It’s good to stay in practice and it usually brings a bit of color to your face.  Makes you look happy.”  He offers a soft smile.  “It’s a good look for you, honey.”

“You do it because you _like_ making me squirm?” Felicity accuses, rising from the floor.  Turning her back to Oliver, she strips off her blood-covered shirt in favor of the t-shirt he packed.

“I like to see you look happy,” he corrects.

Felicity sighs as she pulls on the jeans he packed—also raided from her closet.  So much for their conversation about privacy last year.  “If you weren’t so suave, you’d probably be insufferable,” she growls at him, though there’s no heat to her words.  “But sometimes even _you_ aren’t suave enough to prevent being a pain in the ass.”

“All part of my charm,” he replies as she turns to face him.  He’s turned toward her, but his eyes stay on her bare feet.  Felicity isn’t so subtle; she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him in jeans before.  Between the jeans and blue flannel shirt and brown leather jacket, she isn’t sure she’ll be able to survive being a fugitive—and for an entirely new set of reasons.

Slowly his eyes go up to hers.  “You should let your hair down,” he suggests.  “They’ll be looking for your ponytail.  Most fugitives change their hair color, so it’s probably best if you don’t.”  He studies her a moment, his expression thoughtful.  “Maybe replace your glasses with the contacts in your bag.”

After staring at him for a moment, Felicity asks as she removes the ponytail holder, “How have you been able to do this for the last nine years, Oliver?”  She digs in the bag for her contact case; sure enough, it’s there.  “There’s so much to think about.”

“Like everything else, it gets easier with time,” he assures her as she places her second contact.  Checking his watch, he adds, “We have ten minutes to get across town—we need to leave soon.  The motorbike outside will give us a little extra speed and mobility, but we’ll still have to be careful if we want to get out of the city.”

“What then?” Felicity asks, following him down the front stairs and stuffing her feet into the sneakers at her feet.  She tucks an earpiece of her glasses into the lining of her black leather jacket after pulling it on.  “Once we leave the city, what are we going to do?”

Turning to face her, Oliver replies with a dark grin, “We take the fight to the Cabal, Felicity.”


End file.
